


Faith in a Madman

by WallofIllusion



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Blood, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-04
Updated: 2011-07-04
Packaged: 2017-10-21 00:24:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/218786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WallofIllusion/pseuds/WallofIllusion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's not a whole lot Spirit can do to help Stein. Immediately following the underground battle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faith in a Madman

Stein had been casually apologetic in asking, and Spirit had agreed just as casually.  It wasn’t like he had a choice.  Stein couldn’t maintain the Soul Sutures on his own, and if Spirit broke off their resonance link now, Stein would be dead of blood loss long before he got home.  Reporting to Lord Death would have to come later.

So Spirit sat awkwardly in one of Stein’s chairs, trying not to watch as the doctor put in physical stitches to replace the psychical ones.  The stench of blood was overpowering, undeniable proof of what Medusa had done to him.  Spirit almost wanted to change back into his scythe form so he couldn’t smell it.

By contrast, Stein didn’t seem bothered by it, just as he didn’t seem to mind repeatedly driving a needle into his own gut and pulling it out again.  There was some unrest in him—a buzzing, anxious layer repeating _what’s going to happen now?_ and a lingering excitement, neither positive nor negative, from the battle—but over that, a growing calm flowed through their link.  The act of stitching himself up seemed to pacify Stein. 

Finally, he gave a long, tired sigh.  “I don’t need the stomach stitches anymore,” he said. 

“Okay.” Spirit relaxed his control in that particular area.  He felt the Soul Sutures fall away, and some of his tension evaporated.  There were still other Sutures, though, holding smaller cuts closed, and it was to these that Stein turned his attention now.  He poked and pulled at the cuts, mostly on his arms and shoulders, examining them in the mirrors he’d set up around himself.  “Everything but the ones in the neck can go.”

“Okay,” Spirit said again, and the stitches disappeared.  Now only the ones holding Medusa’s bite closed remained.  Stein picked up a fresh needle and got to work.  Spirit watched for a moment, without thinking, and as a reward was visually reminded that he really, really didn’t like needles.  He made a face and looked away.

There was a careful linearity to Stein’s thoughts now; he kept catching them when they were about to stray.  He didn’t want to think about Medusa—at least, not while Spirit still had easy access to his thoughts.  This was unsurprising.  Stein was a private person and didn’t like it when people tried to look too closely at his madness.  He tolerated Spirit because Spirit didn’t pry; he tolerated Lord Death because he had to.  Spirit wasn’t sure why he’d tolerated—but that wasn’t a thought process he really wanted to have while resonating, either.  If Stein noticed the slip, he made no comment. 

The bite was not as deep as the wound in Stein’s stomach, so it wasn’t long at all before Stein said, “All right, finished,” and they released the last of the Soul Sutures.  Stein ended the resonance link at the same time, and Spirit felt a pressure lift from his shoulders, his back, his mind.

Stein said, “Sorry for keeping you from reporting to Lord Death.”

“It’s all right.”  That was Spirit’s cue to stand and start heading for the door; Stein wanted some time to himself, to process the events of the evening freely.  Spirit was torn.  He wanted to believe that whatever was going on in Stein’s head would not be a danger in the days to come—but that would be irresponsible, and they both knew it.  That was why Stein was looking at him like this:  defensive and patient, with resentment inevitably present, but disregarded.  Spirit had seen this look many times before.

“Stein,” he said, after seconds that felt like minutes.  “About Medusa…”

Stein’s lips spread in a smile that contained no emotion at all.  “About Medusa?”  He wasn’t going to answer any more than Spirit was willing to ask.

But Spirit hadn’t necessarily trailed off to leave the question open-ended; he had no idea what to ask.  What he wanted to ask was intangible; it was the horrible, undeniable certainty that Stein and Medusa _matched_ , they _fit_ , the certainty that if they could resonate like meister and weapon, their wavelengths would slip together with no effort at all and Stein would be lost forever.  But Spirit didn’t know how to word that.  He’d never known how to confront Stein other than directly, gracelessly.  So that was what he found himself doing again this time:

“You wanted to go with her.”

Stein stared at him, raising an eyebrow.  “And?”

“Damnit, Stein, you know what I—”

“Yes, I know what you mean.  But I didn’t want to enough to actually do so—not even when completely insane—and now she’s dead.  Is there anything to discuss here?”

 _The why_, Spirit thought, but he didn’t say it out loud.  What was the point?  Stein would be sardonic and hateful; his cruelty would rise to just beneath the surface, taunting, as if daring Spirit to claim that his current level of self-control wasn’t enough.  But he wouldn’t answer.  For a moment, Spirit felt an absurd envy of the ease with which Medusa had drawn answers out of Stein.

He gave a sigh.  “What am I supposed to tell Lord Death?”

“Whatever you feel appropriate.  I trust your judgment.”  There was sarcasm in his tone, in his smile; it was something like the smile of a conspirator.  It had always fallen to Spirit, after their battles when they were younger, to edit Stein’s actions in reporting them or—when they became too much—to spill them to Lord Death all at once in terror.  This was the “judgment” Stein claimed to trust, and on some level he may have been sincere, may have honestly appreciated it.  Maybe. 

But he always covered it with that damn smirk, like he covered everything else.  Spirit wished he could shake that smirk out of him.  “Stein,” he said through gritted teeth, “I’m asking you what you want me to tell him about _you_.”  Unspoken:  _and how broken you let yourself become tonight_.  And:  _We have to plan for the future.  Decisions will have to be made, about you._

“I’m aware.”  Stein dug a cigarette out of his lab coat pocket.  His eyes met Spirit’s as he lit it, honest for just a moment, and Spirit saw that Stein understood the rest of what he’d meant as well.  But then he looked away again.  “Tell Lord Death whatever you like.  Tell him everything if you want to.  I’m leaving it in your hands.”

And there was a finality to his voice this time, a faint forbidding tone.  His patience was at its limit.  He wanted Spirit gone, and so Spirit had no choice but to give up.  He would have to put his faith in this madman, because Stein had told him once that being trusted gave him a standard to live by.

Spirit stood.  Still he couldn’t bring himself to leave.  He looked at Stein, trying to find the words for the concern—or was it despair?—that he felt.

“Are you gonna be all right, Stein?” was the best he could do. 

He’d expected to be shrugged off.  Instead, Stein gave a hopeless chuckle that hissed through his teeth.  “I have no idea.”


End file.
